She faltered, and pressed her hands to her brow, shivering and turning ghastly pale again.
“Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs Barclay; “she’s going to faint!”
“No, no,” said Claire, in a weak voice. “Don’t touch me. I must speak—I must know. Mr Barclay,” she cried, picking up the jewels, “where did you get these diamonds?”
“These, my dear?” said the money-lender, taking them from her. “Not diamonds at all—paste.”
“There!” cried Mrs Barclay triumphantly.
“But where—where did you get them? Pray, pray speak. It is agony, this suspense.”
“Get them, my dear? Don’t take it like that. Why, what’s the matter?”
“She says—” began Mrs Barclay.
“They are Lady Teigne’s jewels,” cried Claire. “Tell me, how came you by them?”
“Bought ’em, my dear, of Fisherman Dick—Miggles, you know; him as your brother Morton went fishing with.”